Archive for poems

Today marks the first time that this name has felt like a weight to write down, not because it’s your name but because writing it feels incredibly final. I delayed finishing this entry as long as possible because there is so much I wish I could say but I don’t want to walk away from this project feeling as if a question was left unanswered. I want it to feel heartfelt and concise, because that’s the imprint the blog is leaving in my life.

This collaboration affected me more than I thought possible, I shared more than I ever intended and became more attached to this link of our friendship than I ever considered possible. We are better friends because of this and I think we can see ourselves more clearly when we reread our own words. What surprises me most though, is that I no longer hide from the hard moments.

T2C allowed me to have an outlet to voice my frustrations with myself and the world around me. It gave me a place to confess fears and hopes and it created a space where I finally acknowledged the pain I have felt and where I wanted to go from there. I am in no way done growing but I am more ready to acknowledge my own vices than I have ever been before.

This blog saw us through two years of consistent growth and lessons learned, it made us honest with what we wanted out of life and in collaboration. We became more patient and open to constructive criticism so we could create something we could look upon and be proud of.

I know our conversation isn’t over, it’s just changing focus and I know that when it comes down to it, your support will not stop when our project is completed. We’ve been through a lot, and you know more about me than most. In the future, we will share victories, obstacles and joyful moments so I choose to mark this as the first dog-eared page in our saga.

No amount of verbose language could properly describe that appreciation I have towards you for helping with the creation of something so completely personal. So I offer you my thanks and my love for saying yes to me that morning in Grand Central Station, though we were stationary in that moment it felt like our journey began.

I find myself lacking the ability to begin a paragraph today. I’ve done this enough times in my life. I do this daily. Tens or hundreds of thousand of paragraphs later and I am stalled. I can’t think where to begin this end. How do you start a goodbye?

When we (unsurprisingly) unanimously brought up the end date for this project, the date seemed symmetrical and convenient. September makes sense since that is when we began. But as the month has come and gone, it has been remarkably challenging to write these final pieces. The deed seems so much more weighted, even though we are beyond practiced at it at this point. But still the end seemed to add stakes to a very low risk idea. These letters between friends became final thoughts in a conversation that has lasted all night but you still cannot end even as the sun begins to rise.

But end it must. The limits to the format and the range of topics we are willing to explore here is becoming clear. New projects have hijacked the creativity this project began to stoke. And like so many productions and rituals from our lives, this too must end.

I’m proud of this blog. It made me write every week, it made me more practiced and made me work at something only for its own sake. I’m pleased that the outcome could be consistent and as polished as we could get it. And I’m glad that the works created were of great enough impact and interest to us to start a second writing endeavor and began plans for others still. The spark it fanned will not be dying in the near future.

But real gain from Tales from Two Cities was not the habitual writing, but the exploration of a friendship. Through all the new discoveries, forgotten connections, hurt feelings, and perceived digital pressure, we know each other better for having embarked on this together. We have shared family history, hidden passions, cursed our shortcomings, and rallied behind our creative strives. Working together on this made the apathy of long distance friendship impossible. We had to talk, and share, and grow. With new works coming together, I know we can be sure of this continued growth as writers and people.

I’d like to say thank you for suggesting we do this. I feel more involved in your life and more connected as an artist because of this. In fact, the community I’ve felt from working with you has rippled out to every corner of my creative life. For your impact, your editing and your friendship, I thank you.

I found myself at work the other day, explaining what podcasts are to my boss. It was at that moment that I realized how much I have to learn about something I help in the weekly production of. Like writing poetry and blogging, podcasting is an ever-modifying way to share and express part of you and like so many things I endeavor to do, I’m learning as I go along.

In the last few months I’ve undertaken the production of a podcast and starting this month I will add more production time to my already impressively booked calendar. But like writing, each project is different and already I love the new things I have to learn from one of my favorite collaborative partners.

I will be sad when our emails and text threads are no longer filled with what we want to explore with the blog. I will miss having the weekly expectation to put a page of words down that show some semblance of coherent thought, but all good things come to an end.

I already see evidence of new and exciting discussions to come by simply glancing at my inbox. I love the writing and rewriting of ideas, the demolition and reconstruction of potential outlines. It shows me that whether we blog, wax poetic or record our meandering conversation; we understand some idea of what one another is trying to accomplish.

All of this revelation reminds me of the early days before we wrote to each other, the days where we just talked at length about whatever came to mind. Of course we’ve learned to be more structured since then, the stability and growth in our own lives helped us become more lucid writers. But I’m ready to transfer those skills into a new medium and I excited that you’ll be on the other end of the line.

There are still things to do; stories to share and deadlines to meet but I am thrilled to have our podcast to look forward to. It makes the ending of this chapter feel less final.

Much of my time in New York has been spent in the service of others. Not in the “feeding the hungry, sheltering the homeless” way but more in the “on the rocks or up?” sort of way. And while I don’t want to bartend forever, I must admit that I do like my job the majority of the time. It’s not a vast majority, certainly not enough to amend the constitution, but over 50% of the time, I like it.

I have an interest in alcohol, I enjoy the social experiment of watching people interact while drinking, but most of all, I love stories. And it’s the stories of my patrons that I will remember long after the stink of beer is washed out of my clothes and my tips have all been spent.

One such story belongs to Grace.

Grace is who I think of when I think of a New Yorker. She’s tough, opinionated, and not afraid of anyone. She has her standards and she knows what she likes. She doesn’t like how the city is changing, but she loves all the new places to eat. Grace is all of us after a few decades in Manhattan.

Grace is a firecracker. And I mean that how a 1930’s newspaper editor would have used it. She has so much spunk and moxie that while in her seventies, I have no doubt that she could match wits with anyone who dared to challenge her. Having written and published two novels that are still in print, she was already a hero of mine, but in one night she become someone who I know I will never forget.

One night back in April, Grace and I were doing our usual routine. She came in from her apartment which is on the same block as the bar, and I greeted her with a rhetorical “would you like a Prosecco?” I poured her drink and, as a writer, Grace extended her routine but earnest inquiry into my creative life. “How’s it going? What are you working on?” Without fail, she would ask about my writing. And this night, I was honest about my struggles.

I said, “Grace, I can’t wait until I can wake up somewhere quiet, make coffee, take the dog on a walk, come back, sit down at a desk of my own, and just write.” Grace looked away and considered my words for a moment. “Well, would you like to come and stay at my house in Maine?”

In that moment, I could have cried. I took it as a joke, but she was serious. She offered to let us stay in the off season, September-April rent free so I could have a writing retreat. “Now you would have to pay for the heat,” she added as a qualifier. But the wood to burn in the stove of the 1860 built Victorian getaway for a whole winter would have cost less than our Metro cards for the month.

The kindness of an established writer who genuinely wanted to help another artist was remarkable. Never in my life had I been so flattered and thankful for a gift. And in my mind, that will always be how I remember New York. Busting my ass at my job and trying to make real relationships, and seeing those relationships blossom into something truly special.

As you know, for a couple different reasons, this offer didn’t work out. However, it was and will remain a real benchmark in human kindness that I have experienced in New York and beyond. And one day, I hope I can do the same for another writer.